


a final quest

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bran trolls everyone because he ships Jonsa, Bronn gets ousted from Highgarden by a lower branch of House Tyrell, Canon Compliant, F/M, Ghost is a good boy, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa Stark's ten year plan for the North, which includes trade agreements and modifying castles along the Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: It wasn't really a choice. Sansa rose to her feet sedately, wandering from her solar into her private chambers, and stoically reached for her wardrobe. Her warmest furs soon joined her riding dresses on her featherbed, as she laid out the clothes she would need to ride North.After everything, Sansa just wants Jon to come home. She has wonderful plans on how the North can rebuild, grow and change for the better...





	1. Chapter 1

"The raven sent to the Wall has returned, your grace. Unopened," said Maester Wolkan cautiously.

Sansa pursed her lips in silent worry, a yawning pit of black terror opening in her stomach. She curled her nails into the arms of her chair, allowing the pinch of pain to ground her in the moment. She could not waste time on idle speculation of what might be. It was her duty to discover the truth of what was.

"That's the third one, isn't it?" she asked, despite knowing the answer.

She had penned the letters herself, her first before she was even crowned. Pardoning Jon for what she did not consider a crime, and begging him to come home. When they took back Winterfell together, Sansa had never envisioned herself living out her days there alone. Especially not after Bran and Arya returned.

She understood why she could not have them. But that did not make Sansa any less lonely. The lone wolf died, but they were determined to build their own packs. Sansa already had a pack, and she wanted it to come home. There was no reason she had to live without Jon, and she would not, if she could prevent it.

"Leave me," she said quietly.

When the door closed behind him, Sansa placed her trembling hands to her lips, and began to consider her options.

It wasn't really a choice. Sansa rose to her feet sedately, wandering from her solar into her private chambers, and stoically reached for her wardrobe. Her warmest furs soon joined her riding dresses on her featherbed as she laid out the clothes she would need to ride North.

*

Sansa's journey North was less fraught this time. Slower too, with so many retainers accompanying her. She had been forced to stop at Last Hearth, to be greeted enthusiastically by her bannermen. It would be unfathomably rude to spurn their hospitality, and ride on without enquiring how the restoration of the ancient castle was faring.

Sansa had gifted Last Hearth to House Lake. They were loyal yet lowly vassals to the Umbers, who had a very distant connection to the now extinct House. It was a sound political move. They had only a small wooden keep on the shores of the Long Lake as an ancestral home. House Lake were fishermen by trade, and would be extremely loyal to Sansa for raising them up, and granting them such a large swathe of land.

When at last she was able to move on, her heart felt lighter for having visited with them. Torrhen Lake was enthusiastic yet gentle, and sweetly proud to announce he had managed to secure a betrothal to Wylla Manderly. Sansa was glad of it. The North would need many alliances to share its remaining wealth about and begin new trading deals with the Six Kingdoms, as well as the Free Cities of Essos.

But those were considerations for another day. With every hoof-fall, Sansa's wider worries dropped away, until there was only one, pressing her ever onward.

The Wall was as majestic as she remembered it. It caught Sansa's breath, even at a distance, to see the glittering ice shimmering in the sunlight. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.

When they arrived at Castle Black, she had another reason to hold her breath. The gates hung open, unmanned, lazily swaying in the breeze. Her guards urged her to stay back whilst they scouted the keep, and it took all of her control to force herself to do so. Sansa wanted to spur her horse to gallop and scream Jon's name at the top of her lungs. But it would do no good. The castle was as abandoned and bereft of life. She did not need her men to confirm it, and when they did, she could only nod grimly.

The men wanted to return home. They were frightened, Sansa could see, in every twitch of a mouth and tightening of hands on reins. Likely they feared a plague or the return of the Others. But Sansa knew better. The Night's Watch had been scattered, and many never returned North after the battle for Winterfell and the dawn. It was a defunct order now, and Sansa had done nothing to bolster its ranks in the short months since the defeat of the mad queens.

"Find suitable lodgings," she ordered, "Gather up any spare clothing and other useful supplies. We will recupperate here for a sennight."

She knew the horses needed rest, and the men needed time to grow comfortable in the abandoned castle. It did not take long before the familiar routine of clearing snow drifts, lighting fires and sweeping away the cobwebs eased the men. Idle minds ran rampant, Sansa knew, but men with tasks to undertake were easily distracted.

Once the work was underway, Sansa made her way to the ramparts and surveyed the ancient castle with a critical eye. It would not take much to make Castle Black a viable holdfast. Defensive walls and a gatehouse for the Southern entrance. Transforming the barracks into alternate rooms. A castellan to oversee the work. It would not be too difficult, and Sansa had every faith that she could achieve it.

There was no one to share her thoughts with. Not the first time, Sansa wished she had not urged Brienne to remain in the South with Bran. But the fact remained that the Reach, Stormlands and Dorne were filled with men who no doubt thought themselves a better option for King than a boy who could not launch a dynasty. Sansa could not have slept at night, without knowing that Bran was being cared for by true knights like Brienne and Podrick. The decision was the right one, and she knew wasting time lamenting her lack of companionship was self-indulgent. Sansa shook off her melancholy with determination, and returned to the relative warmth indoors.

*

There were few marks upon the maps of Beyond the Wall. The Haunted Forest, Fist of the First Men, Hardhome; names Sansa had heard tumble from Jon's mouth with ease. But no man in her service had ever set foot there.

"It is folly to venture Beyond the Wall without a guide, your grace," said Hugo Wull, the Captain of her guards.

"I know it," Sansa admitted softly, "But there is no other choice."

His eyes shone with sympathy, but Sansa could tell he was ultimately unmoved.

"Jon Snow has left, to join the wild folk," he said, "He has friends among them; he will be safe."

Sansa said nothing.

Safe, yes, but would Jon be happy? For a time, perhaps. And the same would no doubt be true for her. But they would never see each other again if she let him go now. The wounds they had struck one another would fester instead of healing, and soon they would forget their regard for one another entirely. Sansa did not want to settle for bittersweet memories, tainted by their parting. She wanted her brother back.

"We ride in the morn, the day after tomorrow," she said firmly, "I shall hear no more on this matter."

Hugo inhaled roughly, but made no further protest. He bowed stiffly and took his leave.

Sansa sagged into the squat, ugly chair beside the fireplace in her borrowed chambers, and stared into the fire with unseeing eyes. She knew it was foolish, to risk the safety of her men on a likely fruitless mission. But she could not bring herself to abandon the hope of seeing Jon again. She could not resign herself to a life bereft of her family.

Sansa was not afforded the quiet evening of contemplation she had been expecting. Less than a half-hour after Hugo had left, he returned, panting.

"Your grace, please come," he asked of her, and Sansa quickly acquiesced.

She marched alongside him until they reached the covered walkway, and there she demanded to know the reason for his agitation. When he told her, Sansa broke into a run, down toward the gated opening in the Wall, where uneasy men were clutching their bows.

"None of that," Sansa barked, "He is not to be harmed."

She marched through the tunnel, quickly followed by her guards. But Sansa knew she would not need them. Emerging on the far side of the Wall in a flurry of snow, Sansa felt a huge smile break out on her face. Even in gloom of early dusk, she would recognise that snowy coat anywhere.

"Ghost!" she called out joyfully.

The silent, one-eared wolf who had been waiting patiently for her arrival, took off in a trot toward her. When he was close enough, he lay down, so that Sansa could fall to her knees and smother the shaggy direwolf with her affectionate hands. She even pressed a heartfelt kiss to the top of his muzzle.

"You are in dreadful need of a bath and brush," Sansa chided him.

Ghost gave a funny sort of twitch, like a silent, unimpressed snort. But Sansa knew him to be a good boy, who would sit still for her if she asked. She continued to run her hands through his thick winter coat, her heart soaring. Her road no longer seemed treacherous at all, not with such a wonderful companion.

"Now we have our guide," said Sansa loudly, finally rising to her feet with a satisfied smirk.

Her guards exchanged relieved and reluctantly impressed looks. Ghost was always an impressive sight, and he had grown even larger since she last saw him.

"Come, Ghost," she said, reaching up to offer one last pat on his fuzzy head. "There's fresh rabbit."

Ghost remained at her heel as they returned to ancient castle together, licking his chops as though he understood her words. Sansa grew in confidence with every step. His appearance seemed like an omen, sent to show her that her choice to ride North had been the correct one. Now she could only pray that Jon would feel the same.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa awoke with determination in her heart. She braided her hair in a loose one-sided style fit for travelling, dressed quickly in her warmest layers. She had stopped wearing black after the first time she wore her beautiful coronation dress. Sansa had not been allowed to wear black in King's Landing, to mourn her father, and later her mother and brothers. The Lannister Queen had not allowed her even that dignity, forcing Sansa to dress as though she had abandoned her family entirely, as though ashamed of her 'traitor's blood'.

But now, the time for mourning was at an end. The wars were over, and winter abated by the destruction of the Others. Wolkan had even informed her lately that many trees in the godswood were already showing signs of budding. Spring would swiftly be upon them, and Sansa was not prepared to meet it in dour shades, like a spectre of grief, howling in melancholy. Her people looked to her for direction. She would give them a jovial, hopeful Queen, with bright visions for their shared future, and nothing less.

Sansa led the charge North, alongside her Captain, and the ever-loyal Ghost. The wolf was looking decidedly more civilised, since Sansa had made good on her pronouncement, and given him a much-needed bath. There was little in the way of soap at the wall, but Sansa had brought a tiny sliver of a cake from Winterfell, and it served well enough. Ghost had sneezed at a sniff of it too close to his muzzle, startling himself at the sound. The silent wolf was not used to making any, after all. No doubt Ghost would undo her hard work soon enough by hunting and staining his chops with blood, or else rolling in the snow. But for now he shone glossy and smooth, like the ripple of a white Stark banner on a windy summer's day.

They saw no one but themselves for three days. Sansa refused to be disheartened. She knew the wild folk were no doubt watching from vantage points, unseen by her men who were unfamiliar with the terrain. But her Winterfell guardsmen were still Northmen, before ought else, and they knew how to march and move in snow. Despite being unfamiliar with the area, the lack of confrontation with inhospitable wild folk, or a sudden attack from a snow bear, set them at ease. The Lands Beyond the Wall were thickly blanketed with snow, but still just another region of the North. Once they saw that, it no longer held a fearful sway.

Ghost left the company one evening as they huddled about the fires, their tents already up and waiting for them. Sansa was not afraid, having heard from Jon how Ghost loved to roam free and hunt Beyond the Wall. He had always returnedto Jon when he was needed. But her men bristled to see their only guide seemingly abandon them.

"Where does the wolf go?" asked the youngest of her men, a squire who had lately been promoted.

"To hunt," Sansa soothed his fears with a soft, magnanimous smile, "Or perhaps he lopes ahead, to bring our quarry to us."

It would make her quest infinitely easier, Sansa mused, if she did not have to ride though miles of Jon's new people, before begging him to leave them, in favour of her. The wildlings adored Jon. They were proud of the way he had died for them, even consenting to fight for him, in the Battle of the Bastards. No King of any of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros had ever commanded the men Beyond the Wall to fight for him. Jon was unique in that respect, as he was in many others. Sansa longed to look upon his beloved face again, to throw her arms about his neck and hold him close. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell him; the scent of his leathers and the plain soap he used. She wanted to feel his solid hands upon her back and the tickle of his beard on her neck and chin. Beside the fire as her men supped, in a land that was not as foreign to her as she feared it would be, Sansa felt keenly and terribly alone.

*

Sansa's initial supposition of Ghost's nightly activities was proven correct. He waltzed back into their camp with a doe carcass hanging from his bloodied mouth, at dawn. Looking immensely proud of himself, Ghost set the doe at Sansa's feet, like an offering to a goddess. Sansa swallowed down her natural revulsion at a dead animal so close to her skirts, and praised Ghost for being a good boy. She ruffled his good ear, and the remaining clean fur about his throat. Ghost huffed warm, blood-sweetened breath in Sansa's face, pleased with the attention and praise.

The men butchered and prepared the meat, sharing its weight between them. They packed up their tents and continued the long trudge into the endless, icy far North. Sansa felt heartened however, by Ghost's revelation of nearby deer. If there was food, surely before long there would be people?

But it was to be almost a full sennight before they reached a settlement. They had seen wildlings before then: a cautious, middle-aged woman, too old to be the mother of the three babes that clung to the heavy, thick skins of her ill-fashioned breeches. Sansa swapped some of their provisions for information regarding her brother, Lord Snow.

The old woman pursed her lips. But the babes stared in open awe at the Stark banners that Sansa travelled with, heavy fabric that draped attractively whenever they paused for rest. Sansa herself looked fine indeed, with her snarling Stark crown atop her fiery hair.

"Jon Snow is your brother?" the woman confirmed, "You'd be the Queen of the lower North, then?"

"I am," Sansa agreed, after faltering a moment, to hear her Kingdom termed in such a way.

It displayed a rudimentary understanding, but the woman was not exactly incorrect.

"Jon's our King now," piped up one of the children, a little girl with hair that was unusually light for those with blood of the First Men.

"Hush, Hilda," chided a woman, but the information had been imparted, and could not be unknown.

Sansa saved herself from gaping in stunned shock, only by the grace of her painful training at Cersei's hands. Her eyes widened, but while her men murmured in surprise at this news, Sansa made not a sound. Still, she felt her heart crumpling, like a scrumpled scrap of parchment at the news. If Jon had agreed to lead the wild folk, would he consider it his solemn duty to remain with them?

He had once proclaimed not to be the King of the Free Folk, as they termed themselves, when asking for their assistance to rid Winterfell of the Boltons. They had been unsure about following Jon then. But Tormund, and the giant Wun Wun had convinced them. It seemed they needed less convincing now, after fighting by Jon's side for so long.

Sansa rallied herself. She refused to be disheartened, nor slink off home without at least clapping eyes upon her reason for travelling so far into the snowy wasteland of the far North.

"That's his direwolf!" squealed the same little girl, evidently the bravest of the bunch, pointing to Ghost, clearly delighted.

Ghost had indeed padded over on near silent feet, to see what was holding them up. He licked his grubby chops, and gazed at the small children, who were staring in open awe. Then he promptly sat, the same way he did for Sansa whenever she wished to fuss over him, so that he would not be too tall for her to pet. Recognising the clever tactic, Sansa alighted her horse and came to stand beside him.

"This is indeed Ghost, my brother's direwolf," said Sansa, "He came south to lead us back to his master."

The babes squirmed, thrilled. Sansa patted Ghost's fuffy head gently, her smile widening.

"You may pet him, if you wish; he's quite friendly," she said.

The wildling woman looked appalled. But she made no move to dart forward, or otherwise stop the two little girls who bounded over. They enthusiastically plunged their tiny hands into Ghost's fur. The only boy child joined them at a more sedate pace, the most cautious, as he softly petted Ghost's white fur. Sansa beamed and quietly praised Ghost, for being so patient and accommodating with the happy children. They no doubt tugged a little more roughly than he was used to, in their enthusiasm. She was suddenly reminded of little Rickon, three years old and dragging his tiny hands through Shaggy's dark fur, squealing in delight as the huge, ill-tempered wolf licked his face.

Sansa swallowed back hot tears at the sudden, unexpected reminder of her slain brother. She had spent years at King's Landing trying not to think of them overmuch, lest she break her heart from missing them. Then news came of their deaths and she was ashamed that it was difficult to even picture her little brothers' faces. When she returned to Winterfell, the only good moments of her time interned there under Ramsay's thumb was the knowledge that they yet lived, and subsequently gaining Theon's loyalty.

But almost as soon as Rickon returned to her, he was lost again; felled by her own foul husband. In another life, Sansa's husband would have been a brother to her own. Instead, Sansa had lived a life of subjugation and pain, shunted from one betrothal to the next. Never had a man loved her, truly loved her. She had hoped that perhaps Theon might, when he returned to her, to fight for Winterfell. But he too had died before she could find out.

Dwelling on the past would not help Sansa resolve her current issues, however. But it seemed, even in her distraction, Ghost's presence had done so for her. Though the wild woman had been wary of Sansa, she nodded at length. The presence of a tamed direwolf seemed enough to convince her that Sansa's intentions could be trusted.

"Come Brigid, Hilda, Magnus," she called, and the children obediently scampered back to her, delighted by their chance to pet the large fluffy beast that had only ever been a menace before now.

Magnus, having overcome his initial hesitation, was the last to reluctantly release Ghost. He even stopped to plant a wet kiss to Ghost's face, before he returned to his guardian.

"The King's camp is three days ride from here," said the woman at last, "over that ridge, head east. You can't miss it. Hundreds of tents and fires."

"Thank you," said Sansa.

The woman hummed, but said no more, leaning on her axe, which had remained by her side during their entire exchange. Sansa returned to her horse, filled with renewed passion for her aim. King or no, Jon belonged with her. She would make him understand, even if she had to settle his beloved wild folk in the North to do it. The Wall certainly had enough spare castles.


	3. Chapter 3

It began to snow when they crested the hill to see hundreds of tents littering the valley below. Roughly sewn homes made from bear and seal skin, just as the wildling clothing was. It stole Sansa's breath to see it, and know that Jon was so close. From amongst the amassed people Sansa saw the tanned faces of the Dothraki soldiers who had followed Jon north from King's Landing.

There were a small amount that eschewed their traditions, claiming Jon was no Dothraki, but an outsider who should be defeated like any threat. But most would have accepted him as their new Khal, if Jon had wanted it. They seemed relieved when he gave them leave to return home to Essos, and the Dothraki Sea. Back where they belonged. Sansa wondered if Beyond the Wall held the same sway for Jon.

The smallest faction of the Dothraki refused Jon's generous offer, and chose to remain by his side, escorting him to the wall with his gaolers, and naming him for their Khal, despite his lack of enthusiasm. But Jon did not send them away. Sansa wondered at their loyalty to the brutal Dothraki way of succession, to always follow strength, even if it lead them to the bizarre and frigid cap of the world. But the man that slayed a Khal was obviously stronger than him, and it took a great man indeed to slay a dragon-riding despot. Sansa well knew how such a man inspired loyalty. Many of her people still spoke of Jon as their King, despite their happy proclamation of her as the Queen. She was not the only one who longed for his return.

She knew it would be celebrated loudly, should he choose to return with her. Ghost led them to his master, padding on sure feet though the crowds of curious, apprehensive faces that gathered to see the glorious sight of Sansa and her retainers, riding into the camp. She saw Jon exit his tent before he caught sight of her. She could see he seemed lighter somehow, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He carried himself not as an exhausted man, sick with sorrow, but as a young King, sure in the love of his people.

Sansa dismounted from her horse just as Jon looked to her, taking in her fiery hair and the new crown that sat atop it. Sansa was used to being dignified among her people, walking sedately and not betraying her inner feelings of malaise or happiness. But she threw that poise aside the moment she clapped eyes upon Jon, and saw that he was pleased to see her. He opened his arms, and she ran to him. As she had run to him at Castle Black, when she was a frightened girl, hurt and hungry.

Jon caught her as securely now, as he had before. He wrapped Sansa into his warm embrace, as she threw her arms about his neck and nuzzled her face into his hair and shoulder. His beard was longer, thick and bushy and it tickled her throat as she remained, hanging in his hold. He had hoisted her strongly into the air, her legs dangling free. It was a very long moment before he set her down again, and she revelled in his welcome touch.

“Sansa,” he breathed out, “How are you here?”

Sansa reached up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“The wherefores do not matter,” she said, “Only, let’s get out of this cold first, shall we?”

She left her men to mingle with the local inhabitants of the settlement, and followed Jon back through the flap of his tent. Ghost shuffled in behind them, and promptly flung himself down beside the fire-pit in the centre, below the small hole that smoke billowed out from. Sansa took a good look at the tent which was covered in furs, and easily the largest in the camp. Jon offered her ale, and together they sat and drank beside the warm fire. Ghost panted at them, his tongue lolling free, pleased with the completion of his task. Jon rewarded his fealty at delivering Sansa without incident, with a fond rub and a large hunk of meat that appeared to be a goat’s hind leg.

As Ghost tore into his meal, Jon sat back and they began to speak.

“Why have you come so far, Sansa?” Jon said, “Surely not merely to tell me you have pardoned me?”

Sansa blinked, taken aback. “But the ravens all returned unread…”

“I know you,” said Jon simply, “I knew you would not accept what you see as a punishment for me, without protest.”

“A banishment is a punishment,” Sansa argued, “Save death, what could be worse?”

Sansa flexed her fingers, clenching her jaw as she challenged her brother to answer her. But Jon seemed only wistfully amused by her angered protestation.

“If this were true exile perhaps,” Jon said, “But this is my home.”

“Don’t say that,” Sansa snapped, stung that he could so easily set Winterfell aside. “The North is your home. Winterfell is.”

“The free folk call this the true North,” Jon continued softly, as though she had not spoken, “And I think perhaps they are right. These lands are wild, Sansa. Free from corruption.”

“And free from security,” Sansa added, “For there are no crops to till, not stone strongholds to find safety nor shelter in.”

“You see only dangers here,” Jon replied, “And well I know why. You have always been a lady, Sansa Stark. You always had a place in the world, and the world knew what you were. I am not, nor have I ever been, a man with a straight road to follow. Raised as the only blemish on my father’s honour, hidden from the truth of my birth. I am a man with no place, who was forced to find a path of my own. I cannot turn from it, now that I know what beauty there is to be found in a place where men do not kneel.”

Sansa felt a single tear trail down her cheek, and she scrubbed it away furiously. She leapt to her feet, and before Jon could seek to waylay her, if he thought she was to run from him, she hurried toward him instead. Sansa took Jon’s bristled cheeks in both her hands, and planted a firm but chaste kiss upon his lips.

“You are my blood,” she said, not allowing Jon the chance to express his surprise over the action.

Jon met her eyes with a bewildered, but rapidly softening look. His eyes still held the affection they once had, when they reunited at Castle Black, over a year past.

“You will always have a place at Winterfell, whether or not you choose to claim it.” Sansa assured him, wanting to be certain that Jon understood he would always have options for his future.

“You are not bound to the far North,” she said, “Not unless you wish it.”

Jon had taken hold of her wrists, and now he squeezed them softly, as she continued cupping his face. At length he nodded, solemn, but his eyes betrayed a twinkle of mirthful affection. She would always be a sweet maiden to him, she knew, and he would always be her fair knight.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon said, “But do not seek to look for hope of my return. I am uncertain that your offer will ever be taken up, but I do thank you, all the same, for the chance it allows.”

“It is the least I can offer you,” Sansa said softly, “You are still our King.”

“I’m not,” Jon protested, with a shake of his head, but Sansa only answered with a watery smile.

“You always will be,” she concluded, “Whether or not you wish it. But enough of this, for you are correct. I do have another agenda in seeking you and your wild folk out.”

She gently released his face, and he seemed saddened by the loss of her soft hands on his thickly bearded flesh. But he quickly lowered his face to hide it from her. Sansa smirked, because she had seen it, just the same. She seated herself again primly, as though she were sitting on her throne, and not a small stool in a dusty, roughly-hewn tent at the edge of the known world.

“There are many empty castles in the North,” Sansa said, “For I have come to claim the Gift as mine own.”

Jon licked his lips and sat up higher, lifting his cup of ale into his hands. Shifting only slightly, to give herself time to order her thoughts, Sansa settled herself and continued;

“There is no sense in allowing the wild folk to advance north, and letting the new concordance between our people die out with us. For in a hundred years, who will believe we once fought together with a common goal, if we do not keep ties between them?”

“Go on,” urged Jon, clearly intrigued.

“I propose a rebuilding, and re-fortifying of Castle Black, at the outside. There are eighteen castles that could eventually be rebuilt- I exclude Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, for I know it was destroyed-”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “Nay, Sansa. Only seventeen that you might be able to salvage. The Nightfort is forsaken by gods and men alike.”

“Oh?” Sansa frowned, confused, for she had never heard tell of this. She urged Jon to go on, and he licked his lips again, as though gathering his thoughts, before he spoke once more.

“The Nightfort featured in some of Old Nan’s scariest tales, do you not recall?”

Sansa strained her memory, her brow furrowed and creased, but all she remembered were the songs of knights and ladies she had loved so much. It was always Bran and the other boys who wanted scary stories. At last she admitted she did not, and Jon picked at his dirty nails with reluctance, as he began to recount them.

“Tis the oldest and largest of all the castles on the Wall,” said Jon, “And it was there that the Night’s King reigned in terror over his subjects, the 13th Lord Commander who took an Other for a bride, and together they sacrificed-“

“This I remember,” Sansa interrupted, green with nausea as she recalled how the story went. “They slayed their own children as sacrifices.”

“No,” said Jon, “They did far worse. They handed their children to the Night King, and he warped them to become his commanders, his icy sons who stood beside him at the Battle of Winterfell.”

“Those ice-demons, the White Walkers, they were the sons of the Night’s King?”

“Aye,” said Jon, “And what’s more, they carried the blood of House Stark.”

“No!” Sansa burst out, clapping her hand across her mouth, appalled.

Jon grimaced, but nodded. “Old Nan swore it so. The 13th Lord Commander was of House Stark, and so almost all the White Walkers were.”

“Gods above,” Sansa breathed, “You do not think that Arya’s vengeance counted as kinslaying, do you?”

Jon snorted with laughter at the question, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

“Oh, sweet sister,” he teased, “I was the 998th Lord Commander. I believe our blood is sufficiently far enough removed from theirs, do you not?”

Sansa flushed, embarrassed. She scowled at him, mock furious at his gentle ridicule. She pointed out that it was entirely unnatural to be dealing in such a large time-scale of events, and it was understandable that she might momentarily overlook such details. Jon agreed, as though thousands of years of history was indeed, easily overlooked.

Then Jon’s face darkened once more, as though remembering why they were speaking of such things.

“Promise me you will never venture to the Nightfort,” said Jon, “It is where Bran and Meera passed through the wall, through the magical door that only opens for members of the Night’s Watch. Something foul still lives in that castle, something ancient, from an age of men long passed. That castle is where the Rat King cooked and served the Andal king’s own sons to him, breaking guest right, and where Brave Danny Flint was raped and murdered. The Nightfort is cursed, Sansa. Do not seek to rebuild over something so rotten.”

“I won’t,” said Sansa, breathing out heavily at the jumble of terrible stories delivered to her in snippets. “It sounds as though I ought to raze it to the ground.”

“Without dragon flame, I fear that would only bring the creature that slumbers there slithering out into the light, to attack your men,” Jon warned her, his face pale with serious intent, “Let it lie.”

“I shall,” said Sansa, “My first plan is to build Castle Black into a real fort, and then establish a trading route from Greenguard, since it is the closest to the ruins of Eastwatch.”

“Trade with Essos?”

“Yes,” said Sansa hesitantly, “But also with Skagos, as I here can be achieved through tactful negotiation.”

Jon blanched, horrified, “You would trade with the man-eating Skaggs? Whatever for?”

Sansa shrugged, “For they are breathing, as are we, and all men want for something. I am not so sure their fearsome reputation is so well-deserved. I have learnt, in the short years where I was beaten, abused, raped and traded like horsemeat, between men and women who all wanted me for my claim on the North, that there is a power in letting men believe the terrible legends surrounding you. For none believed me more than a little bird, tweeting back what my captors told me to, and they all underestimated me because of it. I outlived them all.”

“Aye, you suffered, and hid your true face from those who would seek to bring you pain. But Sansa, there is a difference between that and letting men believe your people are cannibals.”

“Is there? Faced with the might of the North, do not the Iron Islands protest that they are all the most fearsome warriors, merciless men with no cares? Did not Lyanna Mormont claim to us that men from Bear Island were worth ten of every mainlander? How is that any different?”

Jon blinked, his mouth agape. He attempted to speak, then found he could not, too shocked by the insinuation that the Skaggs were just frightened of their small numbers being overwhelmed.

“I am sure we can come to common ground, but I will send strong men with weapons, before I choose to venture there myself… But what of the other castles of the Wall? Do I need to fear foul beasts in those?”

“I cannot speak to all of them,” Jon admitted, swallowing thickly at Sansa blithely throwing out a suggestion of ever setting foot on Skagos, “For many have been unmanned for decades, even centuries. But Deep Lake and Westwatch-by-the-Bridge I had regarrisoned. Westwatch’s close proximity to the Shadowtower meant both were in good repair when last I heard. No doubt they have been abandoned now, however.”

“Hmm,” Sansa hummed, wondering about the mass exodus of the Night’s Watch. “And where did they all go?”

“I believe a great many took free folk women to wife. Others still roamed South. I cannot say for sure.”

“Some of those men where rapers and murderers, Jon,” Sansa chastised him, unimpressed by his evident lack of care.

“Indeed,” said Jon, “But most, even those who committed grave sins, atoned for them in the fight for the survival of men. I cannot condemn them, especially not now I have joined their ranks.”

Sansa clenched her fists and stood once more, sweeping toward the pile where Jon kept his belongings; spare furs and wood carvings, a bow and arrow, a pair of boots. It was a pitiful collection for a king.

“What you did to Daenerys was not murder, Jon,” she said angrily, “It was necessary for the survival of men. It was war, and you killed your enemy.”

“She was my Queen,” Jon said, “It was a betrayal-”

“I am your Queen,” Sansa countered coldly, but Jon said nothing in reply, looking at her with sad, hollow eyes that contained nothing but pain.

Even now, in this frigid wasteland, the Dragon Queen held sway over Jon. Her fiery hands crept North to hang about his throat. Sansa wanted to wrench them off, the same way she envisioned herself wrenching the short, mad woman who rode a dragon by her stupid-coloured hair, in her dreams. If Sansa were Arya, as she had been as a child, she might have done so. She should have, when the woman came to manipulate her with sweet words, false smiles, and a simpering hand placed over Sansa’s own.

Sansa seethed in fury, but at last she acknowledged; “I should not have said that, forgive me.”

Jon shifted, still silent, and not meeting her eyes now. Sansa sighed heavily.

“Especially when it isn’t true,” said Sansa, “You are a King, the King you have always been. And for now, at least, our lands are separate. Though I would ask you allow me to petition your people. To ask if there are any among them that would not like a permenant home, along the Wall, where they can roam on either side, to hunt and gather and live.”

Jon sat up, and once again gazed at her with affection. “There are many who would be interested in such an offer, I think. Some have found it harder to return to this way of life, now that they know what it is to live in stone walls, with a hearth, and kitchens.”

“And ale,” Sansa added, with a small smile, delighted when Jon huffed out a another small laugh and agreed.

“I could be your Queen, if you’ll have me,” Sansa whispered, and watched the moment sour as the smile fell from Jon’s face.

“Sansa…”

“You think you know what I ask of you, but you do not.” Sansa insisted.

“Then tell me,” Jon pleaded, “Only do not bid me to return.”

“But I must! We could rule together, as we did before you left for Dragonstone,” _and for her,_ Sansa left unsaid.

Jon merely shook his head at her naivety. Men needed to be united behind one ruler, to know explicitly whose orders to follow. But Sansa already knew that.

“I could be your Queen… and you my King,” Sansa finished, her pleas taking on an edge of desperation.

Jon looked at her in confusion. “But how could a King and Queen rule together, unless…”

“Unless they were wed?” Sansa finished with a resolute nod. “Therein lies your answer.”

“Sansa,” said Jon softly, shocked, and perhaps appalled, but battling not to show it.

Sansa was glad for his delicate touch when it came to her feelings, for she could not have stood it if Jon displayed outright disgust at her suggestion.

“You need not come home for that,” Sansa said, “You will always be welcome, regardless of your answer. But Jon, we are good for one another. Think on the moment you argued that Ned and Alys should not be punished for other’s mistakes. You temper my brutality, and I offer you counsel. If we work together, we could be the greatest rulers the North has ever seen. Keep the far North wild, but enfold it into the Kingdom, so that some laws at least are adopted, those against murder and savagery. Think on it, please. That is all I ask.”

For a long, tense moment, Jon avoided her eyes, looking at his hands, where they tembled about his untouched mug of ale. Sansa wanted to rush into his arms and bid him to forget that she had ever spoken, if only he would look at her with fondness again.

“This is no small measure you ask of me,” he said, at last meeting her eyes again, and Sansa sensed kindness there which remained, despite her outlandish request of a man who had been raised as her brother.

“I know,” Sansa whispered, feeling the hot tears brimming in their ducts.

At length, Jon set down his ale, and held out two warm hands to her. Sansa let out a heart-wrenching sob, and flew to him, grasping his hands in hers for only a moment, until she flung herself into his waiting arms.

In years to come, the legends of the North would talk about the Winter King, who only remained in the North with his Queen when the winds were harsh, and the snow thick. But in spring when the deep drifts had melted away, he melted also, back into the frigid, icy wastes far beyond the crumbled Wall, for his cold skin could not stand the heat of summer. The Queen would weep every spring to see her love go. But in autumn she rejoiced, for soon her love would return to her and their many children, always heralded by his white wolf. That is why there are still so many festivals in the autumn, despite its arrival telling of the winter to come. Because the Queen was so happy, and when she was, she wished the whole kingdom to share in that joy.

But that evening, Sansa simply sat in Jon’s arms and luxuriated in his warmth, and hoped for a future that was brighter than her past.

*

“A raven came from the North, your grace,” said Maester Samwell, in the Chamber of the Small Council.

“I know,” said King Bran, enigmatic as always.

“And for those of us without the second sight?” demanded Ser Bronn sourly.

He had been petulant ever since the lords of the Reach had gathered their remaining arms and threatened his life, should he ever set foot in Highgarden. Ser Leo of House Tyrell had taken up residence there. Ser Leo had added great flourish to his name when he sent the Crown’s taxes to King’s Landing, signing himself as the Lord of Highgarden.

As the Hand of the King, Tyrion felt it was not his place to smirk at his friend’s misfortune, but he wanted to, nether-the-less.

“Yes, what news of their lovely Queen?” he said.

“She has married,” said King Bran, cold and ominous, but tempered with a soft smile afterwards.

“Well, it was inevitable, I suppose,” said Ser Bronn, “Who is the lucky fella?”

They all looked to the King, but he only smirked. At last, Maester Samwell cleared his throat and said;

“The King Beyond-the-Wall.”

“A wildling?” Tyrion exclaimed, “Sansa Stark married a wildling? Willingly?”

Samwell winced, “The King Beyond-the-Wall… Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow,” Tyrion repeated, dumbfounded.

He looked to his King, who had that same satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.

“You knew this would happen,” Tyrion accused the young man.

The King shrugged.

“Why else would I have allowed Jon to go North?” King Bran said conversationally, “Jon has always been the rightful King. But he would not thrive here in King’s Landing. He would only ever be happy in the North. And Sansa would only be happy if  at least one member of her family was by her side.”

“That’s why you accepted the Kingdoms,” Tyrion said, the scales falling from his eyes at last. “So they could rule up there in peace.”

“It was the only way to get them where they needed to be,” said Bran.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment :(


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